


if these walls could talk

by LittleMissMandalore



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissMandalore/pseuds/LittleMissMandalore
Summary: After wandering Mossflower for seasons, Urthstripe tries to find his place in Salamandastron. For eulaliaaaaaa's Redwall Fic Month.





	if these walls could talk

**Author's Note:**

> For week 1 of Tumblr Redwall Month's fanfic challenge. Prompt: exploration.

_poor wayfaring stranger_

All his life, as far back as he can remember, Urthstripe has been traveling. Walking all day, fighting when he had to, finding a safe – or safe enough – place to sleep at night. He met otherbeasts almost every day, but for most of his seasons, his only companion has been the endless expanse of the sky. He wouldn’t call it exploring, exactly. Exploring implies a beginning and an endpoint, a start and a finish, a home place and a border that’s always being pushed back against. Urthstripe had no such center, nowhere to go back to when he grew tired of wandering. At least not until now.

  
Salamandastron is Urthstripe’s home. That’s what the hares of the Long Patrol say to his face. What they don’t say to his face is that it’s only his home for now, until a stronger badger comes and challenges him for rule of the mountain. They don’t expect Urthstripe to win any fights. Urthstripe doesn’t expect himself to win any fight. He’s killed – one doesn’t travel alone without facing a fight or two – but he’s killed with his bare paws or with the spear he fashioned out of a long branch and a sharp stone. He’s never used anything like the smooth, shining weapons in the mountain’s armory. He’s never used anything like the great forge near the middle of the mountain, whose fire heats the hallways and rooms. The skills a Lord of Salamandastron is supposed to have – Urthstripe has none of them. He just had the luck to stumble upon the mountain as winter was rolling in.

  
No, Urthstripe won’t be here long. But he figures he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

  
As soon as he’s strong enough to walk, Urthstripe starts exploring the mountain, charting out the labyrinthine passageways. He gets lost a lot at first, and it drives the hares of the Long Patrol to distraction. “We can give you a map, sire,” Windpaw says after the third time she finds Urthstripe lost in a tangled warren of passageways. “’Twould be easier than tracking you down every time your paws get set to wanderin’.”

  
“It’s all right,” Urthstripe says. Windpaw’s brought him a beaker of fresh water and a few oatscones – to keep his strength up, she says. “I want to learn my way around.”

  
Windpaw tugs one ear. “Beggin’ your pardon, sire, but it doesn’t seem to be goin’ too well.”

  
It isn’t, but Urthstripe isn’t about to admit that to the hares. They already think he’s incompetent. Out in the wilderness, his sense of direction was informed by the sky – the sun traversing the heavens every day, the constellations changing with the seasons, the almost magnetic pull between his eyes that always seemed to lead him west. Inside the mountain, there are no such cues to guide him, and that westward pull has lessened now that he’s reached his destination. He’s lost a lot. But being lost inside the mountain is a lot better than being lost outside it, so he’s not going to complain. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.”

  
Urthstripe sees something flicker in Windpaw’s eyes at his words, but it’s gone almost as soon as he spots it. “I’m sure you will, milord.”

  
It doesn’t sound to Urthstripe like Windpaw believes him, but that’s all right. He’ll be gone come spring anyway. He thanks Windpaw for the scones and water, stands up, hits his head on the low ceiling of the tunnel, and wanders back the way he came.

  
He sleeps in the forge room, on a rough stone slab with a blanket that looks like it’s made of three or four hare-sized blankets stitched together. He doesn’t really need the blanket – part of his job, and the only job the Long Patrol will really let him do – is to keep the forge fire going, and it heats the room to a pleasant temperature. But the blanket is habit. Just like the way he always sleeps with his back against the wall and his spear within easy reach. No matter how much comfort and warmth and food there is, some things you don’t forget. Some things you shouldn’t forget.

  
“Milord,” Sapwood says reprovingly, when he finds Urthstripe wedged into one of the windowsills, looking out over the sea, “don’t y’know how to sit still?”

  
“No,” Urthstripe says. A cold wind is sweeping in from the northwest, and Urthstripe closes his eyes and lets it ruffle his headfur. “I don’t think so.”

  
The hare leans against the wall beside the window. There’s no room for him inside it – Urthstripe’s taking up all the space. The mountain’s resident healer, Seawood, says with a few months of good food and rest, he should fill out enough to match his height; right now, he’s skinner than any badger he’s ever met, even the females. “Y’know, milord – it’s alright to rest yer paws every once in a while.”

  
“I know,” Urthstripe says, “but it’s not a good habit to fall into. I prefer to keep moving.”

  
“You don’t have to keep movin’ no more,” Sapwood says. “This is yer home now.”

  
Urthstripe shakes his head. “I won’t be here long. I’m grateful that the Long Patrol took me in – I doubt I would have lasted the winter without you – but I’m not supposed to be here. I’ll be on my way come spring.”

  
“What makes you think yer not supposed to be here?” Sapwood crosses his paws.

  
“The Lord of Salamandastron is supposed to be the strongest and wisest badger in the land,” Urthstripe says. “He’s supposed to be a great fighter and war leader – skilled enough to defend Mossflower from searats and vermin hordes. He’s supposed to know how to use that forge, not just keep it lit. Lord Brocktree, Boar the Fighter, Sunstripe the Mace – all the Lords of the Mountain have been somebeast. They’ve had lineage, history, proud family names. They have a right to this place. Me – I’m nobeast. I’m just an orphan from the south.”

  
This is probably the most Urthstripe’s said to Sapwood since he arrived. The hare doesn’t blink. “Beggin’ pardon, milord, but nobeast finds their way here who’s not supposed to.”

  
“What?”

  
“Everybeast at Salamandastron is here because they’re meant to be here, milord,” Sapwood says. His ears twitch. “Same goes for you.”

  
Maybe it’s in Urthstripe’s nature to be skeptical, or maybe he’s just seen more of the world than Sapwood has. “Even if a stronger badger than me comes along in the spring and drives me out?”

  
“Then you were meant to be here for this winter,” Sapwood says. The hare observed that Urthstripe can’t sit still, but now he’s the one bouncing from footpaw to footpaw, boxing at the air. He aims a jab at Urthstripe’s shoulder. “Still means you were meant to, milord. Think on it a while and you’ll see. This is where you belong.”

  
The hare punches Urthstripe’s shoulder again and lopes off down the hall. Urthstripe waits for the hare to vanish around the next corner before trying to unstick himself from the window, and while he does, he thinks over the hare’s words. Part of him wants to believe Sapwood more than anything, wants to believe that there’s a place in this wide, strange world where he’s supposed to be. That there’s somewhere underneath this endless sky where he belongs. The rest of him thinks it’s just something Sapwood says to every orphan badger who wanders through Salamandastron’s walls. Salamandastron is somewhere Urthstripe’s staying for a winter. Not forever.

  
He keeps up with his wanderings – his explorations, now that he’s got walls and borders and a place to come back to. He works his way down to the lowest caverns where the Long Patrol stores food and water for sieges. There’s another cavern down there, too, with a pool of water the Long Patrol says is bottomless. Legend has it that a previous Badger Lord, from seasons and seasons ago, drowned in it, taking scores of vermin with him. Urthstripe hates the idea of drowning. The idea of taking as many vermin with him as possible, less so. Even so, he leaves the cavern behind quickly and begins working his way back up through the levels. He can feel the pull behind his eyes again, stronger than ever before, and it seems to be leaving him up through the mountain, towards the top. He’s not sure what’s up there – none of the hares can tell him – but he knows deep down that that’s where he needs to go.

  
Urthstripe follows the passageways as high as they will go, and he’s met with dead end after dead end. He’s not weak anymore, not hungry and exhausted and worn, and his options of passageways untraveled run out long before his strength does. Every passage ends with a dead end, a blank wall, and yet, the higher Urthstripe goes, the harder the pull becomes, until it’s almost painful. Urthstripe’s eyes burn from seeking doors and passages that aren’t there, and his head hurts. When he meets his sixth dead end in as many minutes, he lets out a roar of rage and slams his fists against the stone. If he’s supposed to be here, as Sapwood said, why is the mountain foiling him at every turn? Why won’t it let him find what he’s looking for? Why is it so unyielding?

  
Except this part of the wall isn’t quite as unyielding as the others. When Urthstripe threw his weight against it, it shifted ever so slightly, and Urthstripe can feel a stream of cool, damp air leaking from some invisible seam in the walls. He breathes it in, smells salt and smoke and some musty, herbal aroma that he’s never smelled before but seems familiar all the same. Then he throws his weight against the stone again, over and over, until his shoulders are aching with effort and there’s a gap in the stone wide enough to fit through.

  
Urthstripe wedges himself into the space and puts his back against the stone, pushing it aside even further. Another wash of cool air flows over for him, and he closes his eyes. It smells strange. But it smells right, too. It’s dark inside the new passage, and Urthstripe ducks out and returns with a torch. He holds it high and watches as the shadows dance over the walls, illuminating rows and rows of carvings etched into the grey stone. There are carvings of badgers and other creatures, of Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron and ships on the great western sea. Urthstripe runs his paw over the carvings. Herein, he realizes, lies the history of the mountain, of all those who have passed through its halls. There, Lord Brocktree; there, Boar the Fighter and his grandson, Sunstripe the Mace; there, Rawnblade Widestripe, he who slew an entire ship of searats, and – Urthstripe stops, crouches down, stares hard at the next carving. There, etched into the wall, is a badger, broad-shouldered but thin, and carrying a rough spear that’s almost as tall as he is.

  
_It’s me_ , Urthstripe realizes, and then in the same moment, _Who carved this?_

  
It wasn’t him, that’s for sure. Urthstripe can tell by the musty smell of the air inside the chamber that it’s been sealed for at least a season – maybe more. A lot more. Urthstripe moves away from the carvings of himself, further into the cavern, and studies the carvings done last. Each set of carvings bears a distinctive signature, no doubt corresponding to the Badger Lord who made them, and the last set of carvings were made by Rawnblade Widestripe. How long ago did he rule this mountain? Not in living memory, if Urthstripe’s conversations with the hares are anything to go by. This was carved before Urthstripe came to the mountain, before he was even born. Rawnblade Widestripe carved this image of him, of Urthstripe. Maybe this means Sapwood is right. Maybe this means Urthstripe is meant to be here after all.

  
There’s a hammer and chisel lying on the floor of the chamber, and all of a sudden, Urthstripe is struck with the urge to carve something, anything. Anything to mark his place in this mountain, to say that even if he’s driven out come spring, he was here. He lifts the chisel and sets it against the wall, waiting a moment. He closes his eyes, and at first, he thinks it’s only a moment, but when he opens them again, there’s a verse etched into the wall next to the image of him carved generations go.

_Here I rest my wandering feet_  
_Here I set my name and mark_  
_Here I choose to make my stand_  
_Bright against the coming dark_  
_Let me raise my weapons high_  
_Give me strength to guard this land_  
_Shape the metal to my need_  
_And lend itself to my command_  
_Here I take the mantle up_  
_Add my story to this tome_  
_Here at last, I take my place_  
_And here at last, I make my home._

Urthstripe sits back on his heels, studying his work. He feels tears prickle in the back of his throat, and in an instant, he makes his decision. He won’t leave Salamandastron in the spring, and he won’t let himself be chased out. He’s still a skeptic. Even seeing the carving of himself hasn’t made him sure that he’s meant to be here, that this is where he belongs. But now he knows his path. Even if there’s no fate, no destiny that places him here, Urthstripe will stay at Salamandastron. He will be its Lord.

  
Urthstripe will make this his place. He will make himself belong.


End file.
